


letters to santa

by wildcard_47



Series: home for the holidays [2]
Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: This one was a tumblr fic from 2016, so I'm migrating it over here!





	letters to santa

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a tumblr fic from 2016, so I'm migrating it over here!

Lane glanced up from the TV guide, fluffing the pages in his hands as he read aloud, peering down at the small text through his glasses. “Right. Channel three, _White Christmas._ ”

“Ugh,” said Nigel immediately.

Kevin grimaced, too, poking Nigel in the leg as he spoke. “Seriously. Pass.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Lane demanded. He’d always liked that one.

“Only everything. Dad, it’s really naff.” Nigel poked Kevin back, which turned into them cuffing each other round the shoulders, and then the boys began to wrestle around the floor in their holiday pajamas, nearly knocking into the coffee table in the process: Nigel giggling as he pinned his brother to the ground with ease, and Kevin grunting in frustration as he tried to free himself.

Lane sighed, and shook his head, determined not to comment on this today.

Joan barely spared the children a glance as she walked back into the living room carrying two mugs of tea, her green silk robe trailing behind her. She placed one mug on the end table next to Lane, and then sat down on the sofa, still holding the other. “What did we decide?”

“Only that they hate White Christmas,” he told her. “Sorry.”

She sighed. It was one of her favorites. “Fine.”

“Channel four,” Lane said, and tapped Nigel in the middle of his back with one slipper so they’d pay attention. “Now stop that. _It’s a Wonderful Life_.”

Nigel pushed away from his brother with a smirk.

“Aw, that one’s boring,” Kevin sighed as he sat up. His face was all red.

Nigel just looked thoughtful, pursing his mouth in a way that said it was all right. “S’not bad.” He grinned at Lane. ‘Though you always cry like a girl at the end.”

Lane gave his eldest son an annoyed look. “Because it’s a very meaningful story! And I certainly don’t _cry_ , thank you very much.”

He looked to Joan for support. Her mouth was twitching up in a smile, which she quickly hid behind her tea mug, and so he looked back to the magazine in his hands, suppressing a huff.

“Well, I don’t,” he mumbled, but then continued reading as if nothing were amiss. “Now, channel six—” his eyes narrowed “—oh, it’s the cartoon.”

Kevin’s eyes lit up. “Charlie Brown!”

“Really?” was all Joan said, which translated into _for god’s sake, don’t make me watch that._

Lane decided to take action. He got up from his seat, and padded across the room to the set, turning the dial until it clicked two, and then three times.

“Hey,” Nigel said, as the picture came into focus. “Channel two!”

Hardly ever came in right, even with the rabbit ears, but tonight, they watched as a kindly old man and little girl appeared on screen – the little girl lying in bed and chewing happily on a piece of bubblegum as the old man sang to her. _To market, to market to buy a fat pig—_

“Everyone all right with this?” Lane asked.

“Yes,” said Joan immediately, putting her mug down onto the coffee table.

“Santa!” was all Kevin said.

“Move, Dad,” Nigel groaned, motioning him out of the way with an exaggerated wave of his arms.

After a few minutes, the boys had stretched out on the floor on their backs, with two cushions jammed under their heads and a blanket over their legs, whispering to each other as Santa continued to fall under suspicion. After several more minutes, they became quiet as mice, to the point where Lane thought they might have fallen asleep.

He did not investigate, just sat back against the sofa, savoring the relative quiet—and appreciating it even more when Joan scooted up next to him and put her head on his shoulder. He moved his arm so she could get closer, one hand coming up to rest on her hip.

“Merry Christmas,” she said wryly into his ear, and kissed his temple before settling down again.

Lane gave a happy sigh, and let his cheek rest gently against the crown of her head. On screen, the two postmen were debating what to do with the barrage of letters to Santa, all addressed to the courthouse.

“And to you, my darling.”


End file.
